


Cold, Care, Comfort & Concert

by ami_ven



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: writerverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctors make the worst patients, but music can cure all ills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold, Care, Comfort & Concert

**Author's Note:**

> written for LJ community "writerverse" prompt "Music" & "C"

The saying went that doctors made the worst patients, and John would be the first to admit that it was true. He _hated_ being sick, especially with something as simple as the common cold. And he couldn’t be at the surgery while he was still contagious, so he was stuck in the flat.

Sick, and achy, and miserable.

John made himself a cup of tea, decided it would be too much effort to climb the stairs to his bedroom, and curled up on the sofa. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke some time later, he found Sherlock beside him, pulling a blanket back over him.

“You’re ill,” Sherlock said. “Though as a doctor, I presume you’ve already self-diagnosed that fact. And from the empty teacup in the sink, the one with the ivy pattern that you often use when you feel unwell, your diagnosis is most likely accurate.”

John blinked at him, then smiled. “Sherlock, was that a compliment?”

“Merely an observation,” the other man said. “Have you taken any medication?”

“Wouldn’t help, most likely,” John replied. “I just need some rest.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. He hesitated, then asked, “Shall I… make some tea?”

“No!” John said, then added more quietly, “No, thank you.”

“Soup, then?” the consulting detective suggested. “Or another blanket? Or—”

“Sherlock!” John interrupted. “I just need some sleep.”

“Oh.” Sherlock actually sounded a bit disappointed. “I should—” 

“Would you play me something?” asked John, quickly. “Just… just until I fall asleep? It would help.”

Sherlock frowned. “No one has ever asked me that before. I am not, in general, considered soothing.”

John grinned. “You’re not. But the violin generally is. Will you play?”

With a huff, Sherlock picked up his violin, but the music that started a moment later was gentle. John didn’t know the piece, but it felt familiar somehow. It _was_ familiar— he’d heard Sherlock play it before. Not soft and low, like this, but definitely the same theme. Now that John thought about it, this was the same piece Sherlock played when he was frustrated, harsh and strident. The same one he played, quick and furious, when they’d had another close call.

John closed his eyes, just listening. It was… _them_ , a melody that somehow represented who they were, alone and together. It was complex, it was ever-changing, it was fast and slow, and harmonious and discordant, and it was beautiful.

Sherlock was still playing when John fell asleep.

THE END


End file.
